On a flat area close to the road, a white-faced heron stands, neck extended, looking at me. I slow down, because I know they sometimes like to feed on the recently dead. Maybe an animal has died on the side of the road. But then it spreads its wings and beats them downwards, pushing its great body into the air. Nothing happens quickly, but the bird is soon gone. There is no dead animal, and I wonder why I was even concerned.
The country flattens out in a broad plain all of its own. When Ben chose this farm, he chose well. It is soft country, with deep soils and little rock. I could be jealous if I cared about such things any more. I pass lush paddocks of oats and wheat, with faultless fencing that meets shiny ramps. I’d forgotten the kind of hard-driven perfectionist he is. The road winds its way across a creek, past a huge set of cattle yards and up onto a slight rise where Ben’s house and the main sheds sit. His wife, Glenda, spends most of her time in the city. No one knows or probably cares whether they still are a genuine couple. I am certain she will not be at the house. I would not have seen her, even in the distance, for years.
I drive slowly towards the sheds, watching for vehicles parked nearby, where men might be fixing machinery in the sheds, or in the distance, where men could be returning to pick something up or swap machines. There are no vehicles. Nobody about. I don’t even know why I’m here. Except that I need to get rid of these boxes, and I know Ben is a bad guy and there is bad stuff going on that he is somehow involved in. I take a run past the front of the large open sheds, and see nothing unusual: tractors, trucks, spray rigs, generators, and gear associated with planting and grain moving. There is nothing to see here, and I wonder what I thought I might find. Bodies hanging from a tree? Buzzcut and his mates having morning tea?
I turn the ute around, and loop back towards the house, keeping an eye out for anyone who might have seen me. But no one is around. I am keen to be out of here now. This could easily be the farm of a good person, a community stalwart, a successful farmer. The garden gate is at the far end of the fence, so I head towards it, thinking it is best to leave the boxes on his verandah.
When I am past the house, I see two foxes just outside the garden, sitting and watching me, cautious. Their ears are up, and they slowly crouch down, watching what I might do. I stop, trying to see what has brought them so close to the house. Perhaps there are fruit trees, a veggie garden, or even dog food to steal. Then I see another fox, sleek and dark-red shiny, cross the flat to join them. It looks back at me momentarily, and then trots towards the others, sniffing the ground here and there, pointedly displaying no sense of urgency. I look back to where he came from, and see behind the house a squat, rounded brick structure with a chimney almost obscured by a line of trees. I swing the ute towards it, and know that it is a kiln — a pottery kiln, if ever I have seen one. The bricks are dark-red and weathered, or maybe coloured by use. It’s a construction that has been there for some time. I want to go and inspect it, to see if it has been used recently. Perhaps it has been there for decades, and never fired up. Maybe Ben’s wife did pottery, too. But I don’t have time to be snooping around. Someone is bound to turn up at any time. And then I think if I don’t go and check it out, I will be stuck in another loop of ‘maybe’. If it hasn’t been used in years, then that line of wondering can be shut down. I look back towards the shed and down the road to the mailbox. Nobody is about, and I cannot hear a tractor or a ute.
I drive round the back of the house, and park where I think I can’t be seen from the entrance. I walk through the back-garden gate to the front door, and knock. There is no answer, and I yell out quite loudly, asking if anyone is home. The house is silent. So I sprint through the garden and out the back gate. Then I run across the couple of hundred metres of grassy paddock to the front of the kiln. There is a car track: not a road, but a recently used line of wheel ruts. The grass has not been allowed to grow over the bare dirt. Neither has it been able to grow in the small area at the front of the kiln. I can see before I step that there is a faint remnant of a footprint. A large-tread work boot maybe.
The kiln has a cast-iron door at the front. I heave it open, noticing that it is not covered in dirt or cobwebs, or anything else that might suggest this thing is a never-used relic. Inside, the surface is clean, and swept clean. I can’t tell if it has been used in the past few weeks, but it is certainly in use. And then I hear the sound of a motor — distant, and then suddenly close. I run to the side of the kiln, away from the noise. I look around, madly trying to locate it. I don’t know what I’m going to say if it is Ben. I might even accuse him outright. But then the vehicle sound moves on towards the sheds and beyond, and I see a white farm ute bump its way to the paddocks on the other side. I try to steady my breathing, and I walk bent double, instinct telling me this is what you do when you are hoping not to be seen.
I start my ute, turn back, and speed up, leaving the house behind me, all the time checking mirrors for a sign of the ute or any other. Near the sheds there is a bloke standing next to his ute talking on a phone, watching me go. I pass the bright crops, and then pull up at Ben’s mailbox. All I have to do is put the boxes in his mailbox, and then the problem is over. That was why I came up here. Except I am now certain that Ben was cremating the bodies, and that he was manipulating Tito and maybe Elaine. I should go to the police, but it would be so much easier to leave the problem here. The police might not even believe me.
I get out and reach for one of the boxes, but as I grab hold of it and feel the weathered cardboard, and the weight of the ash, I know that I am hoping if I give the boxes back, all the badness in the world will go away. In this scenario, Ben turns out to be a bastard, but not an evil bastard. James does not die, Sarah does not leave, Elaine does not get bashed, and I do not trash my life. Everything will be sweet. But badness never goes away. I’m the only person I know who could believe it would. I have to go to the police, no matter how messy it turns out to be.
I hear a vehicle approaching, and see Ben in the distance, the dust thick behind him. I shove the box away, across the back of the ute, jump into the driver’s seat, and push the ute to reach a high speed as quickly as possible. He won’t be able to stop me if I have enough momentum. We are heading straight for each other on this narrow road. I jam my foot to the floor. Maybe he suspects nothing, but I can’t take the risk.
As we get closer, I realise a ramp marks the halfway point between us. If I can’t get through that ramp before he gets to me, I’ll be blocked — the only way round will be to smash through the fences on either side. But I am confident I am gaining on him and should make it through before he gets there. I sit down a little in my seat, and hang on to the steering wheel. I feel like I am beating him, and surely if I get past I’ll be able to outrun his old machine. And then, when I am under a hundred metres from the ramp, I realise he has somehow increased his speed and that I am not going to make it as easily as I thought. He seems to be getting faster. As I reach the approaches to the ramp, he is on me, but I am still ahead. I cross the ramp, thinking I’ll make it, but in that time he somehow gets to me, and power-slides his ute sideways across the ramp, hitting hard against the ramp side panels. The next sound is the noise of my bullbar crunching into his passenger door, and my head smashing into the windscreen. I try to restart the ute so I can back out, but it will not fire. I try again and again, but nothing happens.
The blood is starting to run down my forehead into my eyes as I get out, my feet unsteady on the bars of the ramp. I wipe the blood away, and feel my way along the bonnet. Ben is standing on the other side of his ute, watching me.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I ask, standing as still and straight as I can.
‘I want my boxes.’
‘They’re not yours.’
‘Yes, they are. There’s a lot of money tied up in those boxes.’
I can’t think clearly enough to come up with a strateg
y. I should just give him what he wants. I will give him what he wants.
‘They’re in the back. They’re all yours.’
‘Walk back over the ramp, and get away from the vehicle.’ He motions to the paddock. I do as he says and make my way, hand-over-hand, back across the ramp and down the road. I turn, and slump down into the gravel. My head hurts something fierce, and my eyesight is a bit blurry, but I can clearly still see him begin to lift the boxes out, one by one, and put them in the back of his car. My aching head is saying, Let it go, let it go. It’s not your fight. When he lets you go, you can head straight to the police. But still I lean back on one arm, and let my hand find the largest stone I can. Then I stand up, and when he turns to ask, ‘Where’s the seventh box?’ I pelt the rock at him. It catches him just below the eye, and he staggers, one leg giving way for a moment. He pulls himself back up, and begins a loud, crazy roar, and runs at me, stumbling across the bars and then sprinting over the gravel at me. I wait for him. I am stronger and younger. I know that I can take him. But he hits me hard with his shoulder, and as I pull him away, we go down. He is hard-muscled and I am soft-headed, and we wrestle onto the grass, flailing at each other. I try to choke him, and then punch him with as much force as I can in the stomach. It doesn’t stop him finding the rock, which he brings up and smashes into the side of my head.
19
I wake on what feels like a concrete floor, my head pounding and my eyes aching. My ribs are sore, and my stomach is tender. I open my eyes slowly, see I have been sick more than once, and then I smell it. I am in a single square room with white walls. It has no windows or cupboards or furniture. There is a door in the corner that is sealed into its frame. The only other things I can see are a water bottle and a piece of rope. There is something dried and flaky on my face, which I guess must be blood. When I look up, I see a rail with stainless-steel hooks on it for hanging carcasses. I vomit again, and it hurts so much I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of their sockets. I look around again at the walls and the door, and guess that this is a cool room. But the room is not cold. The cooling must be turned right up. I remember crashing into Ben at the ramp, and not much else, but I don’t need to. I’m pretty sure I’m at his place, locked in his cool room. Locked away, for whatever reason. He must be piping air in somewhere, because you can suffocate in a room like this. I feel for my phone, but it is gone.
I drag myself across the floor and sit up, my back against the wall, and close my eyes. I force myself to breathe even, regular breaths. Someone will notice I’m missing. Maybe not. Probably not. I don’t stay in contact with anyone, and I don’t have anyone waiting for me. But Ben will have to get rid of my ute somehow, and explain a big dent in his own vehicle. Neither of those things would be easy. He’s probably just keeping me here until he does what he has to with the ashes. When the evidence is removed, he’ll let me go. Who would believe my story anyway? Not Constable Murray. It would only be my preposterous word against Ben’s.
I sleep, and wake. I feel like I have been here for days, but maybe I haven’t. I have no concept of time, and I am starting to lose the concept of me. I think I hear voices outside: Marko; Elaine; Tom; Ian threatening Ben, and demanding my release. They have come to my rescue just in time. But even my foggy brain knows this can’t be true. The insulation in the cool room makes it soundproofed. I could never hear any voices except my own.
The next time I rouse, there is a sandwich on a plate on the floor not far from me. My head, and everything about me, hurts, and eating is something I feel I’ll never do again. But I make myself lean across and grab the plate — ham, tomato, and cheese on white bread. I can’t taste it, but I manage to eat it. At least he’s not trying to starve me to death.
And then Sarah is sitting on the floor beside me, legs crossed, rubbing her hands on her knees. I ignore her, because it’s impossible that she is here. She says over and over that she doesn’t blame me, and it wasn’t my fault. Accidents happen. I believe her, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all finished for me now. I tell her I love her, and she disappears. Then all the people that matter to me visit: Mum, Dad, Marko and Helen, Ian and Mandy, Ralph and Reedy, Tom Little, the fire brigade boys, distant relatives, and people I’ve known all my life. All of them encourage me, telling me not to give up. I just smile at them and nod, accepting their goodwill, but refusing to point out that there is no future for me, and nothing to be positive about. Even Elaine turns up, apologising and swearing she never knew a thing. At one point she takes off her clothes, but I turn away. I should never have had anything to do with her.
Then I’m alone. I stand for the first time in what seems weeks. My head doesn’t hurt as much, and my sight is clearer. I piss in the corner, and the stench fills the room. I drink some water, and slump back down on the floor. Across from me is a rope. I pick it up, and run it through my hands. It is a good piece, fairly new, and maybe ten metres long. Why a rope? I look up at the rail bolted to the ceiling, and suddenly I know what Ben’s plan is. He thinks I’m only a little push off finishing myself. Already mad as. A couple of days in solitary confinement, and I’m as good as gone. He’s right. He’s more astute than I ever gave him credit for.
I make the loop for a noose, and begin to tie the simple knot. I get it wrong, and try again, remembering how my father taught me. He told me it uses a lot of rope, but it doesn’t jam and doesn’t loosen too easily. On the second try, I get it right. I hang it up in front of my face. And then James is in the room on his motorbike — at least I think it’s him, but I can’t actually tell, because he is wearing a helmet that conceals his head. He rides around the room getting low on the corners, and flattening it out on the straights. Eventually, he stops and takes his helmet off. He is smiling that brilliant, bloody smile, and then he disappears.
I pick up the noose again, and my father says, You’ll be doing what he wants you to do. He nods towards the noose. When you’re done, he might even hang you up in a tree at our place. No one would be surprised.
No, they wouldn’t.
It will take you weeks to die in here if you don’t hang yourself. He’ll have to kill you. Make him kill you, my father says. The longer you’re here, the better chance that someone will come looking.
Who? I ask, and he is gone, right when I needed him. I undo the noose, and throw the rope across the room, then lie down flat on the floor, and sleep.
I am woken by Ben at the door. He has a bottle of water, another sandwich in a bag, and a plastic bucket, all in one hand. With the other hand, he points a revolver at me and says, ‘Move to the other end of the room.’ I shuffle my way over, and sit with my legs up, my forearms resting on my knees. He puts the food and drink down, watching me the whole time, then picks up the plate and the empty bottle, places the bucket in the corner, and says, ‘Shit in this.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’
He ignores me.
‘People will come looking pretty soon. You know that.’
‘No one is going to come looking. You buggered all that up, and you know it. No one gives a fuck about you.’
I want to say, ‘Yes they do,’ but I can’t find the conviction.
‘You still owe me a box.’ He says it in hard, flat tones so I don’t mistake him for a human being.
‘It had money in it. I spent it,’ I tell him.
He leaves, and I feel my brain begin to work like it should. If he wants to kill me, why hasn’t he done it? Because killing a person, even if you hate them, is hard unless you’re a psychopath. Is he really hoping I’ll kill myself? It’s possible. It even makes sense — no blood. He really could hang me from a tree, and by the time someone finds me, the birds will have pulled me apart. Or he could say the foxes dragged me in — I know there are plenty of foxes around here. But it’s seems obvious that he doesn’t want to shoot me. Perhaps he’s keeping me alive for someone else — someone who wants revenge, or just wants to a
sk me questions. But he’s also got a logic problem. If I really think I’m going to die in here, which I have been thinking, what’s to stop me from jumping him? All he can do is kill me.
I stand up and walk across the room, flexing and stretching my legs. They are stiff and uncertain, but the movement helps. I reach for the sandwich, and keep walking across the diagonal, then around the edges. My head still aches, but only in the places where it was hit. I stop at the door, and try to kick it out. The impact of my foot on the door does nothing except make my head hurt more. The only way out is through that door past Ben. But he knows that. He must think I’m too frightened of being shot to chance it, or he is only prepared to keep me alive for as long as it doesn’t get too difficult. So if I rush him, he’ll just murder me. Simple as that.
Is this what he did with all the victims? Kidnapped them from somewhere, drove them to the farm, and kept them in here until they killed themselves or were executed? Is it the bodies the foxes come for? I am exhausting myself with questions, and that is not a bad thing. I know it’s pretty hard to hit anything with a handgun unless you take a steady, supported stance. If I’m quick and lucky, he might only hit me in the leg — which can kill, of course, but I feel like it gives me a chance. So the next time he comes through the door, I will attack him, and steal his revolver. That is my plan.
But he doesn’t come. An ocean of time passes while I ready myself for his arrival and my move. I walk as much as I can stand it, and then I sleep fitfully, worried that he will come and go like the first time, and I won’t even get a crack at him.
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